FYAD: KaraokeThis weekend I saw karaoke so horrifying, so awful and so wrong that it actually made me leave the bar. This karaoke was something the likes of which man should never lay eyes upon. It was as if, at my favorite bar, they were holding auditions for “American Idol: The Special Olympics Edition”. Only there was no Johnny Knoxville or even a Simon Cowell to provide any sort of predictable comic relief. Not even keg cup after keg cup of sweet booze could make this better. While no one was actually retarded, it may have helped if they had been. I have, in fact, seen special needs children perform karaoke at a bowling alley (singing Salt ‘n Pepa’s “What a Man” no less) and they were miles better than these people. Why was this so awful? Allow me to give you a brief rundown of the songs they sang.
You can only begin to imagine how magical karaoke in a bar full of twenty and early thirty-somethings is going to be when it starts off with “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”. We then broke into a funky rendition of “Sweet Dreams” by LaBouche. I was almost overcome by douche chills as I attempted to fight off the Night at the Roxbury flashbacks. Oh, but it gets better, people; this was only the beginning.
Next up we brought it more modern with “Cleaning Out My Closet”. Whoever was singing was right on key with the music, didn’t miss a word even when the words got fast. I looked to see who this karaoke maven was and I saw a white dude in a striped shirt with a backwards black Kangol hat who was pushin’ about 350 lbs. “Not bad.” I thought to myself, and then Reg pointed out the fact that the guy was only holding the mic to his mouth and it was actually someone on the karaoke track who was nailin’ it. We watched another two minutes and didn’t hear him sing a single word. Dissapointment.
Here is where it really turned bad. Next up we had “Mady” by Barry Manilow, “Just a Gigolo” by David Lee Roth, “If They Could See Me Now” (yes, the showtune) and the straw that broke the camel’s back was a rendition of the Carpenter’s “Close to You” (why do birds suddenly appear…you know the horror). This was cringeworthy enough on it’s own, couple this with the fact that it was being sang by a long-haired, red headed hippie who sounded like Kermit the frog, but not on purpose and you can share my pain (it’s okay go get a sip of water and the vomit taste at the back of your throat will start to subside).
A perfectly good Saturday night with a great buzz already started ruined by a bunch of wannabe window-lickers whose mother’s told them they’re talented. Parents, I implore you, don’t give your children false hope. They’re not all beautiful, unique, snowflakes, sometimes you don’t hit the genetic lottery and you’ll end up making other people suffer and mock your children.
